New Literati Fall 2016 Issue

NEW LITERATI FALL 2016 ISSUE

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EXPERIENCE CREATIVITY

A NOTE FROM THE PRESIDENT Dear lovely staff members,

Hello little beans! I cannot tell you how proud I am of us for successfully pulling this together. We made this semester a good one, despite the odds. This club is always a wonderful reminder of how a bunch of weirdos that are completely different can come together and create a wonderful family that bonds over “Parks and Recreation” episodes and modge podge. Thank you all for your hard work and dedication to this organization. I am so thankful that I got to work with all of you.

I will miss you all dearly next semester, but I know y’all will kick butt!

Dear contributors,

By submitting to this issue, you have helped keep this wonderful St. Edward’s publication and tradition alive. I cannot thank you enough for this, and I hope you gain confidence in knowing that your work was chosen.

Thank you for letting your work reflect the creativity of our organization and St. Edward’s as a whole.

Amanda Markoe New Literati President

THANKS TO: CONTRIBUTORS: Caley Jordan Berg James Chavez-Sanchez Chrystalla Christodoulou Mary Kathryn Grace Cook Jace De Leon Robert Garcia Caitlin Gonzalez Luisiana Hurtado Sabrina Rohwer Maia Samboy Natalie Sizemore Bailey Stephens Leticia Dominique Zuno Toledo Sophia Velasquez Moises Zamarripa

FALL 2016 STAFF: Ashley Chukwuemeka Sean Cubillas Richard Hall Rebecca Lynn Harville Ashley Ikemenogo Mariah Olivarez Lorna Probasco Gavin Quinn Nicole Zodrow

COPY EDITORS: Jess Arrazolo Oliver Davis Lilli Hime C.J. Shaleesh DESIGN EDITORS: Logan Stallings Amy Tondre SOCIAL MEDIA: Anthony Daniel Ruby Garcia Rebeccah Hoffmann Amanda Markoe

Plotters by: Aly Gorday. Issue by: Amanda Markoe

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROSE Sean Cubillas: “Those Who Bear the Gilded S” Jace De Leon: “Please Forgive Me.” Ruby Garcia: “Dear Abuelitos” English & “Dear Abuelitos“ Spanish Caitlin Gonzalez: “Elijah“ Rebecca Lynn Harville: “Heartless“ Mariah Olivarez: “Letter to Me” Bailey Stephens: “Mr. Biggs and The Ventriloquist”

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY Chrystalla Christodoulou: “Strange People in Strange Places” Ruby Garcia: “ATX Y“ Caitlin Gonzalez: “Untitled“ Amanda Markoe: “Safehaven” Sabrina Rohwer: “Prisms“ Natalie Sizemore: “24 Hours in Austin, TX“ Leticia Dominique Zuno Toledo: “Maria Felix“ Moises Zamarripa: “Colonize“ & “Happy Tank“

POETRY Caley Jordan Berg: “XXI“ James Chavez-Sanchez: “Mechanical Rot“ & “Calling the Hangman” & “Ironbound” & “Transcendence”

& “I Recooked This in the Microwave Just for You“ Mary Kathryn Grace Cook: “Bite“ & “Heavenward” Anthony Daniel: “Spectre” Robert Garcia: “Snakeskin“ & “Sucker’s Punch“ Caitlin Gonzalez: “Road Trip“ Lilli Hime: “Anchor Cloud“ Luisiana Hurtado: “Mattina“ Lorna Probasco: “Missing Dog” Maia Samboy: “Grey“ & “Scentsual“ & “Shhh“ C.J. Shaleesh: “Eyes“ Natalie Sizemore: “Butterflies Smell With Their Feet“ & “To Wind“ Logan Stallings: “America“ & “Barbara Ann“ & “Glory Lost“

& “Soldier Boy“ & “The Universe“ Amy Tondre: “Enshrine“ Sophia Velasquez: “Underneath“ & “You Caught Me Staring As You Flew By“

PROSE

THOSE WHO BEAR THE GILDED S BY: SEAN CUBILLAS Long ago, there was a land so advanced, prosperous, and self-sustaining that it could practically hold the world. There existed technology advanced beyond our wildest dreams, plentiful crops that could fill any stomach with just a look, and bounteous resources to keep anyone away from want. Society itself was humbled by the grace found beneath their feet. It was if the country itself was gilded as the sun shone on its back. As such, it shone blindingly amongst the eyes of the rest of the world.

Some would praise the land for its accomplishments and history. Most lay in the shadows, envious of the prosperity. This was well known amongst the people, so they allowed themselves to be isolated amongst their walls, kept as legend and secret to the shunning world.

What really supported this land wasn’t necessarily fantastic minerals or miracles of science. No. It was adventure. At the ends of every harbor or road were grand ships and caravans prepped for the journeys of the country’s specialized explorers.

Men and women of great talents and romanticism were picked up from the crowds and allowed the chance to explore the outside world in search of great treasures, scientific discoveries, and mysteries of time. Each one defining their cause and mission to the kingdom, holding promises of grandeur and safe returns.

One day, foreign countries gathered together and invaded the grand nation.

They cut off all ports and set blockades on all roads. First came a volley of molten debris and arrows that gilded the country in an even brighter gold. When the townspeople were struck with panic, raiders were released to kill and pillage. The guardsmen could only do so much as anyone in a formal uniform was especially targeted.

Being a peaceful republic, most of these soldiers had never expected nor properly prepared for combat.

For the next couple of days, the foreign armies would patrol the land, seeking out resources and survivors. They stripped the country of its literature, banners, defining technology, records of its people, anything that could identify the place’s reality.

Within a week, their mission was complete. Having reserved contact from the outside world, the country would receive no concern or help from anyone. The country and its people had been erased. However, the specialized adventurers still roamed the world. As such, special bounties were placed on all names found within the country’s directory or anyone bearing its code of arms: the solo letter S.

These adventurers scattered across the world, hiding from the law. Some are captured and executed as they proudly proclaim the fairy tale that was once the

grand country. Others lay within the shadows. Many seek revenge on the countries that laid waste to their home. One adventurer travels the land, looking for answers as to why the world had abandoned his people. If anything, these people are destined by karmic forces to lay waste to the countries that laid waste to theirs. This is the story of S. Story 1: The Cork of Atlantis

“Welcome, young lad, to the great city of Atlantis, a fantasy land advanced by decades of technological research and home to some of the world’s more primordial forms of magic! No country has ever been able to topple our military might or even come close to invading or infiltrating. Surely this is a land meant only for the greats! I hope I got you here safe enough.” Sitting at the opposite end of an old, rickety row boat was a beaten, gagged, and hog-tied form. It slowly creeped on this poor soul that trying to sneak into this heavily fortified island may have not been such a good idea.

On the other side of the boat was his captor, an old, muscular sailor whose daunting size almost overshadowed the country view. He is draped in old, tattered clothing, stained with various oils. “Stowing away on one of our ships! Did you really think it was going to be that easy? I’m actually surprised that no one on our supply ship was able to spot you until we started approaching shore. Just letting you be able to get a glimpse of the city is a sin on our part. I don’t want your mistake reflecting poorly on my crew.” He gestures to an anchor and chain to his side. “I’m really glad to I caught you when I did. I’d prefer that you apologize to Poseidon now and not waste the time of any officials. Do you have any last words?” The sailor saunters to the weakened form and sharply rips away the gag.

The figure raises his head. There’s fresh bruises from fresh beatings. Dried blood streaks from left ear and clogs his nose. A dark circle envelopes his right eye.

Shining from his chest is an emblem: a golden S. Young S. faintly replies, “Your city really doesn’t have a sustainable tourism market. The price for getting on your ship was immense! I practically had to give an arm and a leg to get here!” He gestures to his bruised and near broken arms and legs. The sailor is stone faced.

Worried but not discouraged, S. continues, “Not in for a laugh, I see. Understandable. You’re a hardened, stoic figure that just wants to protect your crew. It’s a very honorable profession, and you’re clearly good at it.” The sailor stretches a bit before reaching for the anchor and chain. In a panic, S. shrieks, “Okay! Okay! I get it! Look here!” S. awkwardly shakes free a piece of paper from his chest. “I come

here looking for treasure! You look like an honorable man, but also a poor one. I can guess that you have people to look after. Family? Kids? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is the map I just dropped.” The sailor sharply turns to him, curious. He leans over and picks up the map. As he unfolds it, a dark shadow looms over his face. “I’m no fool boy. I know a bad bargain when I see one, but this is genuine Atlantian script.

How did you ever get a hold of it?”

“I’m an explorer, studying the various wonders of the world. In one of my travels, I heard of a jewel with a power that could carry an entire country. You can check my pocket for a journal of my travels and know that I am no thief. I only come to study the item. But, from what I can tell, it’s in a protected treasury. If I can get in there…Better yet, if I can get you in there, you can grab yourself some treasure while I study the jewel.” The sailor takes the journal from his pocket and studies it. For a while, he just stands there, holding both the map and journal in both hands but gazing to the distance.

After what seemed like minutes, S. had fallen asleep. The sailor screeches, “Boy!” Startled, S. perks up to the sailor. The old man inches forward and raises his shirt, revealing a lime green bruise, much worse than any of S.’s, that paints the side of his body like a fading canvas. “I’ve picked up a sickness, you see, that leaves me with so little time. It was after one of our travels to an unknown island when I contracted the unknown disease. It’s not contagious, so they let me work, but I am worried for what I’m leaving my family.” He grips his old shirt and looks to S. “My wife and children can’t survive without me. If I could leave them just a little bit of something, I can die happy.” S. grins to the old man. “Good sir, I can promise you more than that. You can leave your family a nice inheritance.”

The sailor sharpens his gaze on S. “Boy, I don’t want to risk anything on this. I can take my boat through the sewers to get near the treasury, but you’ll have to find your own way in. If you weren’t so stupid as to try and steal an entire cake from our kitchens and leave a trail behind, I would’ve never have caught you. I trust your stealth skills but make no trouble for me or my home.”

S. coyly stands, drops the ropes, and bows. “Sir, in addition to being a pacifist, I am a master of the roguish arts. I guarantee you that this will be a clean operation.” Lightning strikes from the background. S. curiously looks up, “Strange. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain. We better get going, then, before it does.” To one of the dark, open channels besides the cityscape, the two venture to Atlantis’ most sacred treasure.

It’s silent over the city. As night struck, most of the townspeople had retired.

Only a few vagabonds and guards walk the streets. Protruding from the center is a tall, gray fortress. Within a dark alley, a man hole slowly raises to reveal a silhouett-

ed figure. S. looks down to the sailor’s boat, “We should be only a couple of blocks from the treasury. I’ll sneak through the rooftops and scale its walls. Should be easy enough.” The sailor murmurs from inside the sewer, “It better be. I don’t need any more problems for my family.” S. remarks, “Don’t worry new friend. This mission is in good hands.” S. provides a discouraging thumbs-up with his still bruised hand. It slowly creeped on the sailor that trying to sneak into this heavily fortified area may have not been such a good idea.

S. moves out of the manhole and replaces the cover. He quickly looks around then takes a deep breath. “Okay, you got this. You talked big talk earlier. Don’t let him know that you don’t have plan.” Down below, the creeping feeling intensifies on the sailor. S. thinks to himself, “I’ve got this.”

Within the moonlit night, a silhouette strides over the rooftops and sneaks through the alleyways. As a shadow, S. escapes the gazes of any loose bystanders.

Miraculously, his weakened arms and legs are able to hurt significantly more through this intensified stress. Yet, he progresses. “I probably should’ve rested first or seen a doctor or not have done this. One of those things.”

After scaling its walls, S. looks down over a glass ceiling. A stone cabin lays in the center, surrounded by the Atlantian military camp. In addition to considering how he was going to maneuver through an entire military camp, S. considered, “Large sunroofs have openings, right? I mean, I do have a way of getting in here. Seriously, I didn’t bring or have any glass cutting items.” A silhouette now shakily though cautiously walks across the glass roof.

“Come on. Come on. There’s got to be an opening somewhere. Aha!” To the corner of the fortress’s roof, pieces of the architecture were starting to come off. A large piece protrudes off the side. “With expert precision and skill, I can cut a hole through the glass or even just break through it. I am so lucky and smart! This reminds me of the time…” As S. thought about how about how awesome he really wasn’t, the glass beneath him creaked. Moments later, S. awakens to the sounds of sirens and indistinguishable yelling. He opens his eyes to several cracks and holes above him.

Luckily, in addition to his back, a pile of gold managed to break his fall. “Note to self: I do not know how to cut through glass.” With the power of positivity, S. manages to convince himself that everything is alright and gets up.

Forcing his neck to turn, S. examines the area. Various bags and gold as well as confiscated items lay around the area. “Yup. This is the place. I better find the jewel and grab some bags before any guards come in.” Outside the cabin, various soldiers grab their swords, spears, and bows and arrows, as one guard yells out from the top of a scaffold to the side of the fortress. “Everyone! Today’s the day! The enemy has

found our us and initiated some air strike! Go the streets, warn the people, and protect Atlantis!”

Back in the sewer, the sirens echo, and the sailor starts to write his will.

Back in the cabin, S. checks his notes to try and identify the jewel. “I’m looking for a circular, blue jewel, like a sapphire or diamond, with a chain over its top.” He ruffles through several bags and digs through piles of gold and other jewels. “No, no, that’s not it. I guess they wouldn’t just loosely keep it in a pile of treasure. Atlantians are smarter than that.” As S. thought this, something snags his pant-leg. “What the…”

He kneels down, removes a layer of gold, and looks to a blue jewel whose chain had caught him. “That’s disappointing. Lucky for me but disappointing.” S. reaches down and tries to pick up the jewel from its chain. Considering his weakened disposition, trying to hold anything may be a considerable task, but the jewel didn’t even budge.

S., with the power of positivity, friendship, and delusion, focused all of his willpower in picking up the jewel. “I’m not leaving empty handed!” It may have been because of his internal strength and positivity, a rush of adrenaline, or maybe Poseidon just gave up on Atlantis, but S. was able to pick up the jewel. “Yes, the Cork of Atlantis!” As S. exclaimed this, a rush of water gushes from the jewel’s original placement, and the entire city begins to shake. S. could only think to himself, “I’m starting to remember what corks do. Can I put this back?” S. examines the half-broken jewel.

“Never mind.” He quickly grabs a bag from the room and rushes through the door. “I really hope there’s no one outside this door…”

On the other side of the cabin door was a barren fortress. “Well, then…” On the outside, citizens scramble around in panic as soldiers try to gather people. Buildings shake and come down, and pillars of water starts to erupt from several corners.

One of the military captains, in tears, looks to one of his comrades, “Who’s doing this?

How has the enemy managed to cause such damage to the city?” In the alley, where the sailor had left him, S. quietly moves down the manhole.

As he sets down the bag of treasure, S. looks away from the sailor. “So…I noticed there’s more water down here.” The boat steadily raises. S., trying not to make eye contact, “Here’s your cut.” The sailor starts to row down the sewer, crying but speechless. “You know, I never caught your name. Mine is S. Because of the…you know…” One of the sailor’s eyes begins to twitch. S. continues, “For such an advanced city, it probably wasn’t a good idea to have a single cork keep everything together.” As the two move on to the sunrise, barely escaping the sinking city, the sailor just pushes S. into the water and looks to the sinking city. He only murmurs to himself, “My friends…my home…my kids…”

S. bobs his head over the water and looks back. After some thought, he just swims

towards the sunset. “I at least got a souvenir.”

By: Sean Cubillas

PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

BY: JACE DE LEON

Through his blurring vision, blackening on the edges, he could see his past and only what he could wish was still his future. She lay her hand upon his but he cannot feel her touch. There’s an ache coming from his abdomen. All he can hear is an offand- on beeping noise coming from the side of him. The white walls, white sheets, red crosses, and bright lights make him think he has made it to heaven, but he remembers he accepted hell a long time ago. The beeping turns into one long note. He closes his eyes.

When he lifts his eyelids he sees Marisol’s forest green walls and sniffs the smell of marijuana and liquor. The sun has crept in from behind the curtains, gleaming off the bottles on the nightstand, placed right next to the latest Nicholas Sparks book.

Christ hangs above the television set. Marisol throws back the curtain, exposing the sun to his hazy eyes. He attempts to hide them behind the shadows of the bars mounted onto the window.

“Good morning, sleepy-head.”

“What time is it?” he says.

“A quarter past eleven.”

He pulls his legs out from under the covers and places his feet onto the stained grey carpet. Marisol has moved into the kitchen to prepare breakfast, maybe a whole fifteen feet away. The chorizo Marisol had cooked began to overpower the smells from the night before.

“I’ve made breakfast for you.”

“I gotta go.”

“But Juan,” she says, “I told you my parents were coming over this morning.”

“I told you that I have to go meet with Monica’s dad.”

Marisol whips the knob on the stove to zero and throws the chorizo and egg into a bowl. Her lightly tanned Cuban cheeks turn a deep red, almost the color of blood, but he doesn’t notice. He slides his grey sweatpants over each leg and sets each foot into his black Nike slides. He reaches for his chain and spots a pre-rolled blunt that hadn’t been smoked the night prior. He sets it between his lips and lights it.

Marisol stands in silence, probably thinking of something to say.

“Take this,” he says holding two one-hundred dollar bills.

“I don’t want that puta’s money.”

“Mari, just take it.”

Marisol has locked eyes with Benjamin himself. He tucks it into her bra.

“You can take your parents out to eat.”

She pulls the bills from her breast and sets them in her purse that lays next to the Murphy bed. He grabs Marisol by the arms and pulls her closer, pressing his lips upon his forehead. The taste of the smoke from last night slips into his mouth which causes him to pull away quicker than he had intended. With a slight push to his chest, she stands her ground.

“When can all this change?”

His hands slide down and firmly grasp her bare ass. He squeezes tightly and kisses her on her neck.

“Why should it?”

Marisol can’t help but smile and let out a quiet moan. But she again pushes him back, as hard as it is.

“Let’s go to The Jungle tomorrow night,” she says.

“Actually..”

“What? Is the wedding tomorrow?”

“No. It’s on the seventh.”

“Sorry, didn’t get an inv..”

“Let’s go tomorrow night,” he says, “I’ll pick you up after the gala.”

With a sigh and a lowered head she asks, “Really?”

He never heard her question though. Before the “uh” in gala even escaped his mouth he was already out the door. He meant what he said, Marisol just never was able to believe his words until they were actually at the event he said they’d go to. Chances were always high that he’d show up intoxicated and they’d just end up drowning demons and forgetting their pain through substances.

Marisol’s books and movies all hinted that she wanted something more, something like the life of Monica Cavanaugh, her lover’s fiancee, but she knew that being the child of Cuban defectors meant a life of a uphill battles. She watched the news outlets that covered Mark Cavanaugh, the county music legend and father of her lover’s fiancee, in a jealous rage. She looked at pictures of Monica and “John” on fancy yachts on big family vacations in foreign countries that she didn’t even know existed before TMZ reported these luxurious family vacations. Sometimes Marisol isn’t sure what she envies the most: Monica’s relationship, or Monica’s race.

To Marisol, white meant money and privilege, which was all something she had no experience with. Right after high school she moved out of her parents one bedroom house and was blessed to have a friend put her up until she found a place. After a couple weeks without any luck, she stayed with a group of Jesuit brothers, north of the city, surrounded by white folk. To earn her stay she’d help with all of the Sun-

day services held at the chapel. It was there that she had seen John, whom had been out of headlines for weeks after checking himself into substance abuse rehab. Her first instinct was to snap a picture and send it into the press, but he saw her, walked up, asked her to delete the photo, then gave her his number. He had her meet him in this tiny, green-walled, apartment, in which she still lives and he still pays for. He was fascinated by her parents’ escape story and was inspired by her dedication to become something more. So they fucked. They fucked almost every day. It didn’t bother him that she had only turned 19 just a week before they met. And at the moment, it didn’t bother her that he was with someone else, kind of.

One night early on into their affair she rolled over and asked him a question.

“Juan,” she started, “Do you speak fluent Spanish?”

He hadn’t been asked that question in years and he was embarrassed to say no.

“Yes,” he says while grabbing a piece of pan dulce out from the pantry, “Really.”

He walks down to his car, grabs a bag from the back seat, and changes into a white polo, khaki shorts, and golf shoes. He looks into the mirror and pulls his earrings out, then places his Ray-Bans upon his face to hide his still pink eyes. As he pulls out of the parking lot, his mind shifts back onto Marisol and her parents. He swears as he makes his left turn out of the complex he sees a middle aged couple, same shade as Marisol, with huge grins upon their face turn in. They are swaying their heads, probably to the rhythm in Romero Santos’s voice.

He thinks about how she probably will open the door to see thrill stuck onto the face of her parents, but she won’t even look them into their eyes. She’ll probably smell the marijuana and think of him, avoiding commitment, chopping it up with his fiancee’s father. Regardless of the empty void he keeps leaving her, she’ll discuss him when her parents tell her she needs to find a man to support her. She’ll talk about his money, and his fancy Mercedes, and the nice boat he rides on. She’ll even do it with a smile on her face and convince herself she’s not just something to do when there’s nothing else to do. Then she’ll take them to dinner with his weekly allowance his soon-to-be wife gives him for, “staying off all those bad substances.” He knows that Marisol will take them to Texas Roadhouse so they can grasp that Texan culture and it’ll be fun until his father-in-law’s greatest hit, “Dear Monica,” blasts through the speakers, bouncing off walls, echoed by every loving, white father, until it lands on her eardrums. Her face will turn pale and she will only respond to her parents with, “I don’t know,” and, “okay.” Finally she’ll think it’s over when the waitress brings her the check but then she’ll pull out the money he handed her. Her parents have to wonder where that money came from and she’ll have to tell them, through clinched teeth,

“John.”

“What a great guy you’ve found, mija,” her mother will say, “You should really think about marrying this guero.”

He stops his train of thought. He’s actually insulted by his imaginations comment.

“I’m not just a guero.”

Still, he arrives at the club house, still feeling the haziness from the night before, with an idea. As he steps out of the car, Monica swings the club doors open and skips her way into his arms. He wraps his arms around her tiny waist, squeezing a laugh and kiss out of his fiancee. Their foreheads touch as the wind scoops up her wavy brown hair, blowing it into his face, lodging in-between his lips.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“Oh,” she says taken aback just a tad, “Mother and I are just eating lunch, setting up our honeymoon to Greece, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Before he can ask where the music star is, in comes his six foot frame, roughly bearded face, without a cowboy hat for once.

“John De La Cruz,” he says, “I was beginning to wonder if your fear of losing ran you off.”

John smiles and lets loose a soft giggle. Mr. Cavanaugh hugs his daughter, squeezing her tighter than John just had, then extends his right hand for a handshake.

He always looks at John as if it were still the first time he’d discovered the color of his skin.

“Honey, I hope you plan on keeping your last name,” he says breaking into hysterical laughter. Monica bursts into laughter, slapping John upon his back.

“As long as the kids get my name.”

Monica nods and lightens her laugh. Mr. Cavanaugh’s smile shrinks and his tone of voice gets serious. It carries the intensity as when he told John a few months ago that if he didn’t get his substance abuse problem fixed, he’d never see his daughter again.

“I know that’s what your kind likes to do that whole two name shit, but this is a new era,” he says, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Juan had never actually thought about kids but he had sworn that, after his uncle was gunned down in the Gulf War, that he’d name his first son Esteban. What about the De La Cruz name? He only has a sister, his uncle never had kids, and he always thought of his cousins as second class citizens, so who was going to proudly pass on the name?

Tee time was at noon, which was very late for Mr. Cavanaugh so the only way

John could get him to agree to show up was to make some kind of wager on the game. Cavanaugh liked his chances going into it, thinking that this Mexican kid had no idea how to play this rich white man’s sport, but during the 5th hole he found himself murmuring “spick” after a missed ten-foot putt, giving John a three stroke lead. By this time Mr. Cavanaugh’s face has changed from pink to, well just a darker shade of pink, which finally led to him voicing his idea from when he first arrived.

“Didn’t know ‘my kind’ could play,” John said.

Mr. Cavanaugh kept his head down, whispering something to himself.

“You know, I was thinking.”

“About?”

“I’d like to have the wedding at the Jesuit Chapel.”

“Monica isn’t Catholic.”

“But I am.”

“The wedding is in a month and now you want to change where it will take place?”

John goes into a deep rant about how without his Catholic, Jesuit, education, where he learned to dress and act like a gentleman, he wouldn’t be here today, with the honor of marrying such a woman like Monica. After some more bickering on the way to the 6th hole, the wager was finally told. If John is to win their short 9-hole game, Mr. Cavanaugh would allow the wedding to be held at the Jesuit Chapel.

“Spick” is said a couple more times. Juan exclaims, “Puta madre,” which is something he hasn’t done since his middle school days in South Dallas, but after the dust had settled, Juan found stuck in an Episcopalian wedding.

The two men ride back to the clubhouse in a golf cart and Cavanaugh takes that large hand of his and sets it upon John’s shoulder.

“You can have it at that Catholic church.”

John looks up at him as if it were his own father.

“But you’re paying for it,” he says.

Marisol looks over at the clock, which just turned to 8:59 PM, and there was still no sign of Juan. He was supposed to be over twenty minutes ago. The clock strikes 9:05 and there’s finally a knock at the door. Marisol is dressed in a tight black dress with red heels and red lipstick. As the door creaks open, Juan’s eyes spread widely.

He’s wearing a black t-shirt, black jeans, brown shoes, black jacket, and a gold watch.

The two walk down the stairs, hand in hand. He opens her door and tells her he’s never seen her look more beautiful.

“I’m not feeling Jungle tonight,” he says, “It makes me feel out of place.”

“You go there all the time though with your little girlfriend though?”

Juan types something into his phone’s GPS.

“Que onda?”

“Just hold on.”

The two pull up to a warehouse in the middle of an industrial park. Juan tells her that he used to come here as a kid. Tropical beats can be heard from the outside.

Inside couples flow together effortlessly across the dance floor. Hips sway back and forth, women are spun in all directions. It’s mostly dark. The only light source are the couple of colored lamps in the corners that shine towards the middle of the warehouse, reflecting off the disco ball.

“Can you even dance to this?” she asks as. He smiles and rolls his eyes, leading her onto the dance floor.

As he takes her hand his body just starts to move like it was programmed in his genome. With each twirl her smile grows larger. She turns and places her back against his chest, grinds upon him, and reaches her hand behind his head. All eyes have fallen upon the 20 year old Cuban in the tight dress. Five songs pass but it has only felt like a minute to them. The DJ stops the music to introduce tonight’s live band. Juan leads Marisol to a table, pulls out the chair for her, and heads to the bar to fetch some drinks.

While Juan is away a dark skinned man with a strong Spanish accent takes his seat next to Marisol. He introduces himself as the owner of the club. He compliments her beauty and the way her body moves like the ocean. He continues to flirt, running his fingers up and down her thigh. The man moves quick and to the point as if there is no time to spare.

“I’d like to make you an offer.”

“Okay?”

“If you sleep with me tonight,” he starts, “I will pay you three thousand dollars.”

Marisol laughs.

“And why would you do that?”

“It’s not often the mistress of Mark Cavanaugh’s son-in-law makes an appearance in my club.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of money held together by a rubber band. She stands, sticks her pointer finger up, and walks to the bar to explain to Juan what had just happened. She fears their affair would be made public. She expected rage but instead got a kiss.

“That’s easy cash,” he says, “It’s just one night.”

“I guess I could use the money.”

“Exactly.”

“And it’d be a good way to cover for you,” she says.

Marisol swallows the rest of the pride she has, and goes to tell the man that she will accept the offer. Juan watches as Marisol is escorted up to a room above the dance floor. After a couple of shots, hist mind starts to race. He pulls together totals of the church cost and reception hall.

“Maybe around two thousand?” he thinks to himself.

He storms up the steps, swings the door open to find the dark man caressing Marisol’s bare breasts. He didn’t expect to feel such a jealous rage. Juan jumps onto the man and wraps his arm underneath his chin, squeezing the life out of him. The man swings his arms back and forth, desperately trying to get to his gun laying in his pants next to the desk, but Juan brings him down, wrapping his legs around his torso.

The man’s black skin has turned almost navy blueish. Finally the squirming stops. He releases and quickly grabs the man’s pistol. Juan orders Marisol to get dressed and grabs the cash. The two dash down the sets of stairs and exit through the back, rushing towards the car.

Once they get back to Marisol’s apartment Juan begins to take pulls out of the 1942 Tequila bottle on the counter. He doesn’t say a word, just continues to drink, watching Marisol cry facedown on the bed. The sniffling stops and he watches her sleep. His vision blurs and the room just doesn’t seem to stop spinning. He closes his eyes and sees a woman behind a veil. He lifts it to see Monica’s face. He opens his eyes, once more watching her sleep. He surveys the room and grabs the wad of money, closes the door behind him, and kisses it.

Two months pass, the church and reception hall have been paid for and John believes he’s ready. He has not heard from, nor seen, Marisol since that night. He’s invested everything into his upcoming marriage, abandoning the substances, but holding onto the gun from his last night with Marisol as a remembrance to the “sacrifice” he made for the life he wants to live. He sits in the priest’s room outside the main doors to the chapel in his tuxedo, alone. The only family there to see him are his parents and sister. The rest of the guests he had never even seen before this day.

The service is beautiful and everything Mr. Cavanaugh had dreamt about for his only daughter. Cavanaugh cries as they kiss in front of the alter, patting the head of his wife. Your guess is as good as the rest as to why. Mr. Cavanaugh later takes the stage at the reception and sings a cover of Garth Brooks’, “The Dance,” as his daughter two steps with her husband. The newly weds laugh more, kiss more, throw cake at one another, and dance. When John’s sister catches the bouquet, he rips it out of her hands and tells her to join a convent, much to the amusement of the crowd. John’s parents sit alone off to the side most of the night, then leave right as Cavanaugh’s awe

inspiring performance. His mom cries the whole way home.

As the night dwindles down and people began to clear out the parking lot, Mr. De La Cruz and Mrs. Cavanaugh step into their longhorn crowned limousine. The driver, Steve, rolls down his window, exposing his brown skin and mustache.

“Congratulations,” he says with a smile and a tip of the hat.

John doesn’t hear what he said because his catches the sound of Aventura’s, “Un Beso,” coming from the speakers.

“Excuse me,” he says, “Can you turn the volume up?”

“No, it’s okay Steve, we don’t want to hear that.”

Monica kisses John’s clean shaved face, working her way to his neck.

“No,” he tells her.

“Escuchame Esteban, por favor.”

The volume is raised.

By: Jace De Leon

DEAR ABUELITOS

BY: RUBY GARCIA

Dear Abuela Prisca, Abuela Ma, y Abuelo Jose, The last time you all saw me, I was twelve years old. After that, our family did not come to visit because Mexico became more violent and too many gangs were robbing American citizens and even their own citizens. My parents did not want to take the risk. At the time, I did not understand why people were being so heinous.

I did not understand how they could commit crimes and hurt other people, especially innocent bystanders and children. Mainly, I did not understand how they had the audacity to keep me away from you all. I still do not understand.

Year after year I would ask my parents if we would be able to visit Mexico that year. Every time, they would look at the TV and see the news announcing another shooting. They would turn back to me and over time the responses went from, “Not right now. Let this violent trend blow over.”, to, “Not yet. There’s still too much going on down there. Give it more time.”, to, “Not this year. There was another shooting in our neighborhood. Even teens are joining the gangs now.”, to, “....

Maybe next year.”, to, “....Maybe in a few years.” Eventually, I just stopped asking.

I used to see you all once a year. Even that small amount of time was taken away from me. I was afraid my little sisters would forget your faces. I would love whenever my parents talked about all of you in front of them and shared their childhood stories. If they could not see you all physically, I was hoping they could at least feel your spirits and characters.

None of you saw me grow up. None of you were there to wipe away my tears as I struggled to represent my family in English. None of you walked around town with my family with the burden of understanding the racial slurs and ugly stares thrown our way while my parents smiled back obliviously. None of you saw me at age eighteen in my beautiful prom dress. None of you were there to help my dad scare away boys or to help my mom bring them in. None of you saw my parents cry tears of joy as I became the first in the family to graduate high school. None of you opened the mailbox and saw a college acceptance letter. None of you were there to see me continue to persevere and move onto year three of college.

However, what brought me the most sorrow was the fact that my eight years did not compare to the decades my parents did not get to see you before I was even born. None of you saw your own children age because they had to leave to create a better future for generations to come. They put their own lives and relationships aside for the sake of lives they will mostly never get to meet. None of you were there to tell your children they were doing an amazing job at being parents.

None of you were there to tell them what I could not or did not know how to during their times of unhappiness and fatigue. None of you had the amazing opportunity my sisters and I had to see my parents be the true definitions of strength, diligence, bravery, and love.

None of you will ever be forgotten because you are seen in the aura of my parents. Every day they look more and more like you. As long as I have them, I have you. As long as I am still alive, I have you. Then after death, I will have you for eternity. The decades long streak of not being within your presence will finally be broken.

Until that day comes, Hasta maĂąana abuelitos. Rest in peace.

Con tanto amor, Ruby Garcia

DEAR ABUELITOS

BY: RUBY GARCIA

Queridos Abuela Prisca, Abuela Ma, y Abuelo José, La última vez que me vieron, yo tenía doce años. Después de eso, nuestra familia no fue a visitar porque México se convirtió más violento y demasiadas gangas estaban robando ciudadanos Estadounidenses e incluso a sus propios ciudadanos. Mis padres no querían correr el riesgo. En ese momento, yo no entendía por qué las personas estaban siendo tan atroz. No entendía cómo podían cometer crímenes y herir a otras personas, especialmente las personas inocentes y los niños. Principalmente, yo no comprendía cómo tenían la audacia de mantenerme lejos de todos ustedes. Todavía no entiendo.

Año tras año le preguntaría a mis padres si podríamos ser capaces de visitar México ese año. Cada vez, mirarían el televisor y verían las noticias anunciando otro tiroteo. Ellos me mirarían y con el tiempo las respuestas fueron de “No ahorita. Deja que esta tendencia violenta se sople.”, a, “Todavía no. Todavía hay demasiado pasando allá.

Dale más tiempo.”, a, “No este año. Hubo otro tiroteo en nuestro vecindario. Hasta los adolescentes se han unido a las gangas.”, a, “....Tal vez el próximo año.”, a, “....Tal vez en unos años.” Con el tiempo, dejé de preguntar.

Antes los veía una vez al año. Hasta esa pequeña cantidad de tiempo que los visitaba me quitaron. Tenía miedo que mis pequeñas hermanas se olvidarían de sus caras.

Amaba cuando mis padres hablaban de todos ustedes en frente de ellas y compartirían sus historias de la infancia. Si ellas no podían ver los físicamente, esperaba que al menos podrían sentir sus espíritus y personajes.

Ninguno de ustedes me vieron crecer. Ninguno de ustedes estaban allí para limpiar mis lágrimas mientras me esforzaba a representar a mi familia en Inglés. Ninguno de ustedes caminaban por la ciudad con mi familia con la carga de la comprensión de los insultos raciales y miradas feas lanzados nuestro camino mientras mis padres sonrieron olvidadizamente. Ninguno de ustedes me vieron a los dieciocho años en mi vestido de baile de gala estudiantil. Ninguno de ustedes estaban allí para ayudar a mi padre ahuyentar a los niños o para ayudar a mi madre a traerlos. Ninguno de ustedes vieron a mis padres llorar lágrimas de alegría mientras me convertí en la primera en la familia que grada de la escuela secundaria. Ninguno de ustedes abrieron el buzón

y vieron una carta de aceptación de la universidad. Ninguno de ustedes estaban allí para verme seguir perseverando y pasar al tercer año de la universidad.

Sin embargo, lo que me trajo más dolor era el hecho de que mis ocho años no compararon con las décadas mis padres no podían verlos desde antes de que yo naciera. Ninguno de ustedes vieron a sus propios niños envejecer porque ellos tenían que irse para crear un futuro mejor para las generaciones que vengan. Ellos pusieron sus propias vidas y relaciones a lado por el bien de las vidas que la mayoría nunca llegaran a conocer. Ninguno de ustedes estaban allí para decirle a sus hijos que estaban haciendo un trabajo increíble en ser padres. Ninguno de ustedes estaban allí para decir lo que yo no podía o no sabía cómo durante sus momentos de infelicidad y fatiga. Ninguno de ustedes han tenido la oportunidad asombrosa que mis hermanas y yo teníamos en ver a mis padres ser las verdaderas definiciones de la fuerza, la diligencia, la valentía, y el amor.

Ninguno de ustedes jamás podrían ser olvidados porque son vistos en el aura de mis padres. Todos los días se ven más y más como ustedes. Mientras que los tengo a ellos, tengo a todos ustedes. Mientras todavía estoy viva, tengo a todos ustedes. Y después de la muerte, los tendré para la eternidad. La décadas larga racha de no estar dentro de sus presencias finalmente sera roto.

Hasta que llegue ese día, hasta mañana abuelitos. Descansen en paz.

Con tanto amor, Ruby Garcia

ELIJAH

BY: CAITLIN GONZALEZ

Never will I ever forget the look on your face when I came home from work.

The way your eyes lit up when I smiled back.

The look you gave me when you realized you had a home. A good home that would never stop loving you. Good boy. You were so good.

Good enough to show off to whoever wanted to steal a glance. Good enough to spend endless afternoons with in the most comfortable of silences.

To bathe in soap made out of vanilla and oatmeal and spend hours brushing before Sunday brunch.

To spoil with expensive treats and toys and talk to for hours on end about absolutely anything in the world So good and so loved. My baby boy, gosh, I loved you.

Never will I ever forget the moment I found out I had to give you up. He’ll know. I couldn’t do that to you. I couldn’t cry in front of you. So we played and ate and slept on the old tan couch like we did every Saturday. And when you slept, I held on to everything. My fingertips and eyes memorized the spot where your eyes creased and how it felt to massage your scalp. Your little scalp that was probably filled with dreams of us together for years. How dare they turn your dreams in to nightmares. Cursed Tuesday. The very worst Tuesday. You had no idea. I couldn’t do that to you. I smiled and laughed in the car but never turned my face. You would know. You always knew.

We walked in. It was time. I couldn’t. No. I can’t let go. Not my baby boy. A few more minutes. All I need is a few more minutes. Please. Please don’t. Look at him. How can I say goodbye? I can’t. It’s too soon. It’s too soon! “You’re okay. Everything is okay.” Not yet. Please. I hugged you so tightly. Every inch of me remembered what it was like to hug you –what it was like to feel your warmth against my skin. “You’re so good.” My baby boy. “Such a good boy.” Never will I ever forget the moment my hand let you go.

You knew. This is what I was afraid of. You always knew. I smiled so you wouldn’t be afraid, but you can only bend so much before you break. I felt a part of me rip from my very soul as you walked through the door and away from my sight. The pain that followed – The pain! Gasping, grieving, crying, heaving. How many moments? How many minutes was I crying outside that building longing for you? How many hours until my tears filled up that piece of me that you had taken with you?

Is that you I see now? It’s dark and my eyes are a little runny. That has to be you walking next to that stranger. What is your home now? Are you happy? Do they make you happy? Do they play with you even though they’ve had a long day? Do they teach you manners and proper behavior? Do you get to go out as much as you did? Do they love you? Are you fed your favorite things? Do you remember me? When they come home, does a part of you expect to see me? Do you miss the way I’d stroke you until you fell asleep? Or the way I would put a red blanket over your head so you could be whatever you wanted to be as you ran around the kitchen. Do you still sleep on an old tan couch?

Wherever you are, I miss you and love you, my beautiful baby boy.

HEARTLESS

BY: REBECCA LYNN HARVILLE

She was odd, he noted, and mean. She had this face of don’t mess with me. Her lips were downturned most of time that made it look like a semi-frown, which is why he thought she could physically hurt someone if she just wanted to. Her cold blue eyes and the icy glares she would dish out to anyone who looked at her didn’t help her case. She barely spoke to anyone on campus. He noticed she liked to spend basically all of her time in her dorm room.

It wasn’t until one night that he first met her.

* * * * It was late, about two in the morning, when he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and decided to go out for a walk. When he was out walking, he saw something out of the corner of his eye—something on a bench. It was her the odd, mean girl. She looked…she looked like she was sleeping.

He felt like it wasn’t safe for her to be outside sleeping at this time of night, so he started reaching out to shake her awake. He barely got to touch her shoulder when she suddenly grabbed his arm.

He was taken aback by her movements.

“What are you doing touching a helpless young girl in the middle of the night?”

Her voice was deep for a female and almost deadpan.

“Y-You looked l-like you were sle-eeping and I was—” He sort of stuttered his answer until she cut him off.

“And you were gonna do what, exactly?” Her eyes narrowed, making a bad accusatory claim with him.

“I was gonna wake you up, but clearly… I’m Aaron.”

Her glare became even more icy, if that was even possible. “Do you really think introducing yourself is gonna make this situation better?”

“Uh…no?”

“Well, at least you answered one of my questions correctly,” her eyes drifted off to the side like she was in thought. “Probably, gonna be the only one though.”

Now, that hurt Aaron, but he decided not to say anything about it. “Well, you’re obviously not asleep, so I gonna go. Bye, Rachel.”

“Wait, how do you know my name?”

“You live in my hall?”

“Oh, that’s just great.”

“What?”

She ran a hand through her coppery red hair. “I have to worry about a creep living in my building.”

Now, that really hurt Aaron. His mind just went brain dead when he blurted out, “Why do you have to be so mean?”

She looked at him like she was done with their conversation. Her more-thannot monotone voice came out as she said, “It’s a long story. Don’t get so butt-hurt about it.”

“Well, I got time.”

“A long story meant go away.”

So, that’s what he did. * * * * The next time he saw Rachel was sometime later that week. No one was around her. No one wanted to be. He started thinking and comparing her to one of those thousand-piece picture puzzles because you always had to start with the edges before it starts to get easier to figure out.

He walked up to her that day determined to figure out the puzzle. “Want to tell me that long story?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, “Fine. Sit down.”

He sat down beside her.

She cleared her throat and began, “I used, ya know, be this nice and happy girl until senior year.”

“What happened?”

“Someone stole my heart.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, really it’s true. My heart was stolen on my eighteenth birthday.

“I had just come home from my ‘birthday party’ that I held at the local mall in my hometown. The partly was basically me and my friends— “ “My friends and I” She scowled. “My friends and I were walking around the mall and going to the theater that’s connected to the mall to watch a movie.

“Now, when I got home and finished getting ready for bed and was about to go to sleep, I felt this huge weight agonizingly being lifted from my chest. It felt how you would feel like if your balls were being ripped from you. When I looked up to see

what in the world was going on, all I saw was a pair of blazing red eyes.”

She smirked, “That’s why I’m here.”

He was confused and flustered by the balls comment. “Why would that be why you’re here?” he questioned.

“I figured out that whoever stole my heart goes to school here, and I’m going to get it back.”

“Do you want any help?”

“You seriously want to help me?” she asked with an eyebrow lifted.

“Yeah, that is if you want any.”

“Seriously?” she asked again, the look of disbelief still on her face.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She stated with a shrug.

By: Rebecca Lynn Harville

LETTER TO ME

BY: MARIAH OLIVAREZ

Dear Eight Year Old Me, At this point in your life I’m pretty sure we decided that crime was the way to go.

You have stacks of investigative and judicial scholastic book fair items in your shelves, and I’m picturing you reading one novel next to the plug in heater in grandma’s living room. Don’t ever forget to close the door to the living room quickly so none of the heat escapes into the kitchen or hallways. You don’t know how lucky you’ll be when you move to a new house with central air conditioning and heating.

I regretfully must confess that dad is always right, and mom would prove to be one of the best friends you’d ever have. Also, I know you keep busy reading and drawing by yourself, but soon enough it won’t just be you roaming the halls of your house.

I bet you’re wondering why I’m writing you, and truth be told I’ve kind of been beating around the bush and I may for a while. It’s November in the year 2016 (no I’m not kidding) and you are in your final year of college. You’ll feel like you’re lost sometimes, and you’ll want to take the easy way out. You’ll wonder why you join organizations and clubs when nothing seems to be going the right way. You’ll definitely keep yourself up at night with anxiety of the future. However, you must never lose that spark, “you just always had,” since you were where you are now.

You’re going to meet people who think different than you, who look different than you, who talk different than you -- and just because they’re different than you, you will think they are better, smarter, and have more money. They will make you feel insecure, but just as you wish they not judge you, they not belittle you, you must do the same to them.

Never think that being a girl defines you, or limits your “potential.” Never think that being kind is showing weakness. Never think that the only way to succeed is to go alone, because I’ll tell you now it’s much easier with family and friends by your side.

You are utterly self-obsessed sometimes, and quite dramatic when you want to be.

Work at listening to others, helping others, and learning about others. I promise, you’ll begin to truly love the person standing in front of the mirror. Once you do, you’ll see

that you have a big heart. You’ll see that social justice matters to you, and that education matters to you. Once you begin to see the world through this lens, there is no going back.

Finally, there will come a time when you believe you’ll be witnessing history. You’ll have this fire in your belly that tells you there is no way the bad guy wins. You’ve invested time and heart, all for the one outcome you know will change the world. Yet, as the clock passes two in the morning, you’ll be hit by the devastating truth that the home you so undoubtedly love, that you spoke with of pride, still needs work. You’ll learn that a woman must be seen as a saint in order to compete with a man who spouts hate. You will cry, and the worst part is you’ll hate yourself for crying because this is what they use against you.

As time passes, and the sun begins to shine through your curtains, you’ll finally get it. It will all click. The tears will dry, and you will come out stronger than ever. In that moment, past fear, past disappointment, past sorrow, you’ll find opportunity. That opportunity is your life, and what you choose to do with it.

You’ll create your next goal that morning, and you’ll dream about the day you meet the women who so graciously gave a concession speech that afternoon, all to say, “thank you.”

Sincerely, 20 Year Old You

By: Mariah Olivarez

MR. BIGGS AND THE VENTRILOQUIST BY: BAILEY STEPHENS The old man waltzed through his backdoor and into his backyard. His wife’s voice followed him, “Dinner will be ready in an hour, don’t spend too long out there!”

A smile slithered over his lips, the dropping sun touched his wrinkled face. Although he was aging, he was rather handsome, with deep set gray eyes like stone and high cheek bones. He retained a very tedious primping routine. His salt and pepper hair was combed and parted to one side, with the just enough gel to maintain his perfect part. His mustache was brushed and waxed. His face was moisturized and sun protected. His clothes, a pair of black slacks and white button up shirt, were pressed with precision that morning at exactly six o’clock. Soon following, at six-thirty, he polished his black leather shoes so they shined like mirrors.

His yard was immaculate. From a single blade of grass to a high flying leaf, everything was in its proper position. The greenery provided an idyllic scene surrounding his shed. A spotless alabaster metal shed with gray roof sat in the far corner of the expansive backyard. Brambles of red roses sprouted along one wall and continued to roam across the metal, unpruned. They were wild, remaining untamed by the old man.

He respected their thorns as well as their beauty and let them do what they pleased.

He paraded across his lawn like a commander in front of saluting soldiers.

Reaching the shed door, he stepped inside it’s cool interior and turned on the lights.

A blue shag rug lined the floor, giving the shed an odd sense of comfort. A desk filled with various colored paints and strings sat on one wall, while a table held a mix of hardware tools on the other. The illumination shown boys and girls made of oak with glossy eyes sitting on shelves around a singular room. Puppets of all different colors, shapes, sizes posed for his eager eyes. He strutted over and ran a withered hand across their smooth wooden faces, like a father stroking the cheek of a child. The old man was proud of his puppets and took great care in their upkeep. Yesterday, they had all been cleaned and touched-up for the event. Today, not a single speck of dust would dare rest upon their perfectly gelled hair dos. He looked at his children sitting on the shelves for display, seeing his own reflection in each of their eyes, and was pleased.

A thin voice called to the old man from the desk, his ear’s perked like a dogs listening to its owner give commands. Then he floated across room to the desk like a moth to a flame and starred at a concealed box. It was a black, velvet lined box hidden under an assortment of paints and string. Inside the box was a very particular dummy. The puppet was ornately painted with short black hair, porcelain skin, rosy cheeks, and a black tuxedo. This dummy seemed completely ordinary aside from the

human teeth set into the jaw piece. Sharpened yellowing dentures protruded from the puppet’s painted ivories. The dentures were mostly sharpened human teeth, but a few canine substitutes filled in a few positions. The painted oak cracked near the root of each tooth as if it were forced into the mouth of the unsuspecting dummy. Human flesh was stuck in-between each tooth, caked blood flecked the puppets smile as well as the rest of his face. As the old man beamed at the puppet, a grotesque smile, much like the puppets bloody canine grin, crawled upon his face.

With the shed doors shut and the lights turned off, utter black held the room in silence. There were some shuffling sounds and then light peered into the room through a hole in the floor. A trap door had been opened in the center of the room, the blue shag carpet thrown carelessly aside. Beneath the trap door, a square room with metal walls glowed in the light of a single bulb. The room could be described as a metal cube, there were no apparent doors or windows aside from the opening in the ceiling. The old man peered into the cube, feeling the chilly air from the underground space brush his face. The room held a body, or what remained of one. The abdomen was ripped open, the intestines laying in in half trampled piles covering the floor. A kidney was near the left wall and bits and pieces of the rest of this person’s digestive track was clumped near the right wall. The right eye hung out of the skull and the left eye was completely gone. The dead person’s mouth hung open like a window to an abandon house, yet the teeth had been removed. The body had complete chunks of flesh missing. There were odd marks surrounding all the wounds, they appeared every few spare inches of skin, like scratch marks but not quite. A young man stood in the far corner of the lowered room, amongst the mess, aghast. His eyes were fixed onto the open trap door, although all he could see was darkness.

As soon as the door had been opened, the young man began screaming for help. For a long while the old man stared into the room, looking directly at the young man. He let the man scream until his voice grew hoarse. This had to be his favorite part, watching his victim’s eyes fill with worry. He had had seven victims, counting this man, total. Each one was taken from a random location, far from his own home, and drugged to aid in their forgetfulness. The old man was intelligent but prideful. He wouldn’t be as careless as to lead the police back to his own home, but he couldn’t help antagonizing his stolen playthings.

The young man’s labored breathing could be heard from the puppeteer’s perch as the puppet was lowered into the room by its strings. A glossy eyed expression, much like the glance within his own children’s eyes, sat upon the old man’s face. His withered lips cracked and a speech inconsistent to his own ventured out. The puppet spoke:

“Hello. I am Mr. Biggs.”

The young man was stunned for a moment, then he turned his blue eyes upward, away from the dummy, and toward the opening, “Please let me out. I don’t know why you put me in here but I will give you anything you want, just let me out, please.” The young man’s words came out in a heap that laid inside the room on the floor, useless, like the decaying human pieces.

Mr. Biggs did not respond. The dummy levitated within the room on his strings like an omnipotent god on judgment day. The young man’s eyes flashed continuously between the puppet and its ventriloquist. It seemed the cat that held his tongue intended to rip it out.

“My father made me of wood many years ago,” Mr. Biggs’s hand rose to scratch his painted head as he began his story. “He brought me into being. As I grew older, I grew very hungry and like any other living thing I had to eat.” The dummy’s head tilted to the side as the young man pushed himself even farther into the back corner. “My father is old now and cannot stop me.” The young man began shaking furiously. Mr. Biggs sighed and shook his head, “You’ve seen your fate, be brave.”

The young man was frozen but sank slowly into the pile of discarded body parts, staring blankly at the puppet. Tears rolled down his face, but the young man made no noise.

Mr. Biggs continued, “You are doing much better than the last few I’ve had. They all seem to do the same begging and pleading. It is very cowardly.” The dummy paused, as if waiting for a response, but none came. The young man was fixated on nothing, his eyes were empty aside from the leaking tears.

Surprisingly, words formed inside the young man’s throat and crawled out, “Why?” It sounded more like a croak then actual words, but Mr. Biggs understood him.

“I need sustenance to live. What would my father be without me?”

The silence that followed was long and heavy. Both men in the lowered room stood on the edge of hell together. Suddenly, Mr. Biggs’s jaw unhinged in a monstrous fashion and he rushed at the young man. The teeth started snapping quickly and forcefully, like the chattering toy teeth children receive at Christmas, only much deadlier. Soon flesh was smacking the wall with deafening slaps and blood colored the metallic floor. Mr. Biggs kept snapping and tearing the young man apart until he was nothing more than a pile of mush to join the rest. Newly formed piles of bloody gore added to the décor of the room. When there was no flesh left to tear, the puppet ended his meal and returned to his father.

By: Bailey Stephens

“Teeth“ by: Monica Loya

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY

STRANGE PEOPLE IN STRANGE PLACES BY: CHRYSTALLA CHRISTODOULOU

ATX Y

BY: RUBY GARCIA

For this project, I used 35mm colored film on my quest to find the color yellow around Austin. I wanted my eyes to focus on every detail of my surroundings. I didn’t want to just walk. I wanted to observe, to notice, to acknowledge how much a color’s presence impacts our lives. I wanted to see the tactic and result behind using the color yellow instead of any other color. Sometimes the yellow was obvious and large and other times it was hidden and required a glance by chance. It used to be one of my least favorite colors, but after this project, seeing it around sparks a little bit of joy in me.

By: Ruby Garcia

UNTITLED

BY: CAITLIN GONZALEZ

Nature’s Eye

Colored Waters

Cold Sunrise

SAFEHAVEN

BY: AMANDA MARKOE

The forest is such an interesting place because some people, including myself, see it as a calming place where they feel comfortable and safe. I wanted to contradict this feeling, and show how the forest can be a place filled with danger. There’s an eerie feeling in these images, almost like a set for a cult or horror film. There were no props used in the making of this project, and these images were taken with a disposable camera.

By: Amanda Markoe

PRISMS

BY: SABRINA ROHWER

Growing up, I loved to play outside. I was fascinated by exploring nature and creating imaginary worlds inspired by my surroundings. My photographs in Prisms aim to recreate that sense of imagination I felt as a child through the alteration of natural scenes.

By: Sabrina Rohwer

24 HOURS IN AUSTIN, TX BY: NATALIE SIZEMORE

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MARIA FELIX BY: LETICIA DOMINIQUE ZUNO TOLEDO

The most unforgettable woman during in “Golden Years” in Mexico. The most beautiful woman and her name was Maria Felix.

COLONIZE

BY: MOISES ZAMARRIPA

Enjoy

Enjoy

World-Wide

Enjoy

World-Wide

Enjoy

World-Wide

Enjoy

World-Wide

Enjoy

World-Wide

Enjoy

World-Wide

Enjoy

World-Wide

Enjoy

World-Wide

World-Wide

“Colonize” was an idea provoked by making a juxtaposition of early European colonization and its contemporary juxtaposition of corporations. Colonialism resulted in Europeans taking the land of the ones who once lived there; today even in third world countries you will be able to find a bottle of coke.

HAPPY TANK

BY: MOISES ZAMARRIPA

“Happy Tank� is a juxtaposition of corporations and their involvement in war; special interest have a heavy influence in politics. Unfortunately, the reason we are involved in the Middle East is because of oil companies lobbying for the Government to protect their international assets.

POETRY

XXI

BY: CALEY JORDAN BERG

you can turn on a picture show, but we’ll both be somewhere else then we can forge our new language, but next month we will forget you kiss my dirty hands but you won’t buy me a nail file I think of you on your birthday but I’m too afraid to dial you can put your headphones in but your thoughts might not shut up you can fill up on cancer sticks but it might not be enough you can shatter glass and yell but you still have to fetch the mop you can change the world tonight but you still have to wake up you can pour me black coffee but I’m still going to leave and I can wear my white button down

but I will not be clean

MECHANICAL ROT BY: JAMES CHAVEZ-SANCHEZ

We invented the Age of Mechanical Rot. Our bodies are pure but our souls are not.

Gears toil and whirl round and round the clock.

Tick tock Princess, Princess, tick tock Your vibrant rust has the most cancerous shine.

My grasp breaks loose from what I once called mine.

“Excuse me ma’am, do you have the time?”

“Half past midnight you filthy swine!”

Give me drunken pleasure just for a while.

Remove the pain with instinctive denial.

Making so many choices, is this one final?

The Hangman’s long awaited this one grand trial.

Every machine will need repair.

Winding and clanging must always declare That in the Age of Mechanical Rot My body is pure but my soul is not.

Wrath Gluttony Greed Sloth Lust Envy Pride

CALLING THE HANGMAN BY: JAMES CHAVEZ-SANCHEZ

A punishing lock on the breath in your throat.

Gluttony.

The wicked relief to find all you destroyed.

Wrath.

A name on your grave too shallow to grieve.

Sloth.

The conquest of peasants without a skill to their name.

Lust.

Ironbound hands with a life bore by eyes.

Greed.

Blind bored eyes with a life bound by hand.

Envy.

The decorum to deem it all worthwhile.

Pride.

IRONBOUND

BY: JAMES CHAVEZ-SANCHEZ

One by One, Marching the beat, Marching on hard and heavy cracked feet.

Heavy they stomp, Heavy they cry, Heavy until the day that they die.

Hear them come, Shackled and bound, Never get used to hearing that sound.

Prisoner now, Prisoner then, Prisoner since their God had wrought them.

TRANSCENDENCE BY: JAMES CHAVEZ-SANCHEZ

Sequences, the gift’s encoded Hateful lust, some never quite know it.

Call them suicides, call them tagged beings.

The first step to the time honored dreams.

Strength preset, Rage encrypted.

Your body falls but you spirit stays lifted.

Low life, high tech.

High transcendence in each hard fighting breath.

Circuits bound, you’re part of the grid.

A mind of the hive, everything they forbid.

Senses enhanced, souls carried past.

Never pariah, outsider, alone or outcast.

Call us heretic, haunting, horrid, death.

May it always be declared: Long Live the New Flesh.

I RECOOKED THIS IN THE MICROWAVE JUST FOR YOU

BY: JAMES CHAVEZ-SANCHEZ

Humming, humming, done, more humming.

Two hours ago, you said you were coming.

It’s stagnant and dry, just for you.

I recooked this in the microwave, just for you.

A well cooked dinner of potatoes and steak.

I made it how you like, all the time it took to make.

It’s well done and dripping, just for you.

Well done by Chef KenmoreTM, just for you.

I’ve been in bed for a while now, watching tv and the phone.

Been in bed for a while now waiting for you to come home.

I’ve done everything I can, just for you All I can do, just for you

BITE

BY: MARY KATHRYN GRACE COOK

When we came to the table I had prepared a large feast One worthy of being on a Martha Stewart Book

And you brought chips and salsa.

You grew and grew in size Your ego grew rotund.

Your hands became bear claws tearing into each dish.

Engorging on what I gave you Your bites were large and you inhaled what fell from your lips.

Like your breathe could defy gravity and bend it to your will.

In-between stuffing your face you said “the bigger the bite the more flavor” But you left nothing for me.

I would break your chips into tiny pieces And scoop just enough salsa for taste.

Each piece disappearing like cotton candy, I tried to leave some in case you wanted it, But even you turned up your nose at what you brought.

Eventually I needed more What you brought to the table could not satisfy me.

I nibbled on a chicken bone Seeing this You clenched one end between your jowls And pulled hard.

I pulled.

My end shattered and bones caught in my throat

I choked on bone and blood.

I gathered my stuff at the table and I left You were angry and yelled “nothing” I left you at the table with “nothing” to engorge on I was “nothing” to you

I walked away stumbling bleeding, and unable to speak about why The next time I cooked

I would feed myself first.

HEAVENWARD BY: MARY KATHRYN GRACE COOK Do you remember when you were 6 years old and your dog died

You named him Lucky, but were disappointed that he wasn’t Your mom told you that everything would heal over time

Except It doesn’t really It doesn’t get better. It doesn’t heal. You just replace

You justForget.

And every hole that is made through your life you Loss, pain, hurt, gone, yelling, screaming, silence

-Try to fill You will find something else to fill that hole which

Will make you feel better. Will make you forget; You try alcohol, sex, drugs, Just a little more to numb the pain you tell youself

-But instead you empty yourself further

Your mother taught you about Heaven When Lucky died

She taught you about hope And maybe it’s time to find it.

Because in this abyss of holes, hope is the only- Only thing which fills them Holes which don’t heal But empty your soul-

You fold your hands and pray Looking

Up Instead

Of Down.

SPECTRE

BY: ANTHONY DANIEL

I wander, with hidden purpose I glare at the puzzle before myself

and I wonder why the stars shine I’m being kept from something, treated by the others as if I were a house-fire

and I shamefully admire the steadfast faith of the trees Once gazed upon for fortunate promise of warmth, love emitting, now the lines have shifted and left me an absurd mess

and I doubt the dogma handed down by man These eyes see nothing now, my ears hear only the glitched rumbles of a ghoul, my body feels only the last wisps of vibrance

and the memories of past existence disappear into the undergrowth Yet longer I linger, here, waiting, for the lights, for the curtains,

for the call

SNAKESKIN

BY: ROBERT GARCIA

Here we are My love The snake of our lives finally shed of its skin Everywhere we have been now dead and left behind New skin, just for you skin We had to die to find each other skin Let us entwine our bodies until we are an impossible shape No one has seen or will ever see again The shape of a shadow in a thousand year old cave The curve of a womb filling with love’s potential A muscle, poised and ripe the apple eve caught and from which she chewed regret into existence Only we have none Now our memories are spacedust Burnt fuselage on a distant moon in someone else’s galaxy The hate and the hurt that cracked our minds and souls have become the rocks which we use to scrape off our dead skins Who now would dare pull us apart What God would allow it This was on purpose Fate is nothing but skin peels A cocoon molding potential Until one finds their like A light in the abyss of the world A shallow corner away from the current which to take shelter in A body of fresh skin The antidote to original sin Proof of God and His eventual win

SUCKER’S PUNCH

BY: ROBERT GARCIA

Only suckers punch The rest of us duck Or take it head on We know it’s easier to hurt a hand Than a head Wrapped in a bone cage No parole For a bunch of Barabbases Badasses Till the darkness comes that is Then we are all converts In a convent of regret For a life hoisted on our mother’s shoulders Water rising to her neck and still She’d rather drown than drop me See Our fathers bailed a long time ago Born without skulls Who could they protect if not themselves Let their freedom be their cells While our skulls grow thicker and much quicker it seems Minds doused in kerosene dreams bursting at the seams to be Lit on fire by wide awake hate Aching to consume our fate we try Running up walls and over stars Until we dive into shallow ponds of deep mourning And when morning comes Trade bruises like rare coins Currency of pain turned prophet The same one who told us once Twice you’ll be struck How only suckers take three

But hey, who gives a fuck Now only I can hurt me

“Steampunk“ by Swarez

ROAD TRIP

BY: CAITLIN GONZALEZ

Let’s make a plan, set a date, and drive before the sunrise. Let me buy us granola bars, and you bring the coffee. Let’s drive before the busy bees pollute the highway and take out the old tattered map your mom left in the glovebox. Park the car as far away as possible and Begin.

Let me step on fallen birch with my right foot and on dried maple with my left. Let us dodge and duck oak’s eager arms and rest against rosewood after the greatest uphill climb.

Let us inhale slowly and exhale with the wind. And Listen.

Just listen.

Hear the birds tell you about their day. Let them tango and waltz in front of you and show you what it means to be in love.

Watch the bunny gain his confidence and perform a ballet after finally leaving his hole.

Let him be your inspiration. And Go. Get up and find the rock.

Let me stand on the edge for a bit with my hands stretched towards you in case I fall.

But don’t hurry me along.

In fact, stay on the edge with me and enjoy the view. Let us stare at the current flowing beneath our feet. Feel the temptation to jump in and follow the stowaway leaves into the unknown.

Let me climb to the cliffs without a rope tied around my waist. Let my hands burn against the roughness and my muscles protest against their use. Let me stand at the top and Stare.

Stand with me. Feel your heartbeat in time with the falcon’s wings. Inhale. Stop. Exhale.

Close your eyes. Grab my hand. Show them what it means to be in love.

ANCHOR CLOUD

BY: LILLI HIME

Maybe it’ll be like in the movies when the dad lets go of the handle bars when the training wheels spontaneously combust into the street and the kid keeps pedaling, keeps going you keep going, keep flying ‘til you don’t remember fears of falling into failure, out of doubt, off the ground clouds trickling off the handlebars as you ascend the ground as needless as the forgotten training wheels People will see you and wonder how you got so good at pedaling how you got so high in the sky and you’ll say all you did was Anchor yourself in the clouds because everything’s prettier from a distance because clouds move too fast to glance anything but good because your visits are too brief to love anything but everything daily you’ll bathe in the shimmery scales shed by a gilded dragon in the sky daily you’ll find new things, transcendent, strange, entrancingly human things daily you’ll never face the end of a day the end of a memory, of a moment, of a life Maybe you’ll anchor yourself to a cloud cozied up by the sun so when people see you they’ll shade their eyes you’ll be invisible, invincible beyond the reach of mortality, of failure, of dependence beyond the scope of earthly imagination And beyond you will stay

And on one of those pristine cloudless days maybe it’ll be like in the movies when the dad lets go of the handle bars when the training wheels spontaneously combust into the street and the kid keeps pedaling, keeps going you keep going, keep flying clouds falling away from your soaring being clouds as needless as the forgotten training wheels and you. lone being streaking across the sky anchored to nothing but your own will maybe it’ll be like in the movies and people will see you and wonder is it a bird is it a plane no it’s infinite it’s you

By: Lilli Hime

MATTINA

BY: LUISIANA HURTADO

Mornings are magic.

They are sunbeams, blue and orange cotton candy clouds, planes flying overhead to their international destination– And although planes also pass overhead in the evenings, they are completely different in the morning– Their noses angled purposefully cutting through the a.m. sky.

A swirl of energy and wind taking hold of you in the morning– It’s intoxicating and wonderful and fresh.

Magic– Again and again with each gust of wind that caresses your skin.

The birds caw without a snooze button, celebrating the day and alerting the others to rise up.

It is a brand new day: Everything is clumsy and lovely and new.

Even though the day passes by quickly and stressfully and very very harshly at times, these few minutes in the morning provide a firm, reassuring hand on the shoulder of your soul.

You have these moments.

You are breathing and terrified and anxiously alive.

These early cawing birds have it all figured out.

MISSING DOG

BY: LORNA PROBASCO

Responds to Charlie.

Last Seen July 2nd, 2016.

Checked the pound.

Tried the humane society.

Checked the pound again.

A girl was crying, she was saying goodbye to her dog.

Her dog was in pain.

The place is busy- she would have to wait.

I’m back to the streets.

Where is my dog?

Back to the place.

The girl is still there, she tries not to cry.

She holds her dog.

She is waiting for them to kill her friend.

This is wrong.

I sit by her.

I move closer.

This is wrong.

We hug.

We cry together.

-------------------------Missing dog.

Responds to Charlie.

Last seen July 2nd, 2016.

GREY

BY: MAIA SAMBOY

The morning was grey today.

For the very first time since I moved here, the sun didn’t beat down on me as I stepped outside the door on my way to my 11am. Usually the clouds burn off by now, but not today.

Today is grey.

How suiting that today be the first grey day, when that color is all I can think about. I remember you were so angry when you found out grey was the color of brain cancer awareness. Breast cancer got pink, 5k walks, and cute bedazzled bras. What did you get?

You got grey.

It’s such an ugly color, you said, not yet realizing what an ugly thing you were dealing with.

You did not have brain cancer, you became it. That grey ugliness took ahold of your brain. It took over your motor control, robbed you of your independence, and seeped into all the little crevices of your personality.

You were the sun.

Bright yellow.

You helped all your flowers grow,but when that grey storm came, your light was left paralyzedtrapped within the clouds.

When I think back to a year ago, all my memories are shrouded in grey. Those clouds clung to all sides of the house. They hung above each of us. We all knew the storm was coming.

Memories from that time that don’t involve you, even happy ones, are tinged with grey. No matter what I was doing, no matter where I went, the image of you lying in bed- mouth open, eyes closed, struggling to breathe- burned at the back of my mind.

In those last few days, it seemed as if the grey clinging to your brain had released you.

The poison of the grey left your words but left you with nothing.

You were a shell, and watching you in those moments was my own personal hell.

I no longer felt grey.

I felt red.

A hot, angry, restless red.

The grey had sucked up all of your yellow Chewed it up, spit it out And left you with nothing.

It wasn’t fair It wasn’t fair at all.

I was red, you were grey, And there was nothing I could do about it.

Now, on this first sunless day, I try to remember your yellow.

I need your yellow, I need my sunshine.

But all I see is grey.

Grey clouds.

Grey faces.

And the grey hole, Where you used to be.

SCENTSUAL

I’ve spent a lot of money on lotions and perfumes Because I love the smell of summer And flowers all in bloom But yesterday, I was by myself For the first time since last June And it excited me But made me sick Because all I smelled Was you

BY: MAIA SAMBOY

SHHH

A clump of my hair Wrapped in the palm of his hand He says “Don’t cut it- it’s part of you” But he tells me shutup When I talk about love As if my words aren’t a part of me too

BY: MAIA SAMBOY

EYES

Invite the eyes Emptiness emerged See loneliness dissipate

BY: C.J. SHALEESH

dipped in the dull of emptiness from an unwillingness to see as silence reaches its maximum

Silence that encompasses their life A life rotted by abandonment A life grasping onto a decomposing soul in the midst of soundless shrieks A life with a muted purpose that leads them to think There is Nothing here Nothing to hear So why am I‌ Invite the eyes

They can be revived Sight that can illuminate

dipped in the dull of emptiness by the presence of someone acknowledging their sight revitalize the facets of life that hide

BUTTERFLIES SMELL WITH THEIR FEET BY: NATALIE SIZEMORE A garden employee told us not to touch or try and catch the delicate creatures.

The oil on our skin hinders their ability to find nectar necessary to survive, so it’s best to just cross your arms she says.

The garden is shaped like a dome, and spirals downward, leading you to a single circular cement slab in the middle of it all, the heart’s center.

Thousands of butterflies, plants, and small insects fill the space between the floor and the ceiling, flying freely in the contained space.

Small children are on a garden tour for a school field trip, and ask questions I would probably ask if I wasn’t afraid of sounding like a child.

I learn the average lifespan of a butterfly is only two weeks long – two weeks! I wonder if the days feel especially slow if you only have fourteen of them, or if you think of time in terms of days at all. A man with a broom comes into the garden every two hours to sweep up dead butterflies.

Dozens lie dead on the ground, perfectly still. In the moment before they disappear into the dark corner of the dustpan, I mourn their death.

TO WIND

I always hear you whisper.

Your soft tone barely touches my skin, and pages turn, or at least that’s what it sounds like.

Not versed in your language, I attach my own meaning.

Thank you.

It will be OK. I love you.

You run your hand through my hair, and for a moment I think I might understand.

BY: NATALIE SIZEMORE

AMERICA

BY: LOGAN STALLINGS

I think the world is too messed up For me to be messed up too, So I’m trying my hardest To keep it together Though the world watches All I do.

My problems are of no consequence In light of this torment that spreads.

It’s like the world wants me to defuse a bomb, But I can’t tell the blue wire from the red.

My vision is blurryAll the color is gone.

It leaked out and Drained away.

Water and blood hold No difference now, So what exactly is In our veins?

The water is rising all around, And soon we will be submerged.

And though I know You breathed last years ago, I won’t let this damned water purge The air from my lungs.

I will keep breathing for you.

I will keep breathing- I know I must.

BARBARA ANN

A head full of philosophy On black sweatered shoulders.

Delicate silver ‘round her neck.

Intense generosityCurly hair and red lipstick.

Sophisticated taste And material things.

With the mouth of a sailor, And the etiquette of a queen, At the opera and the ballet She is often seen, Barbara Ann, Tell me your storiesHelp me to learn.

A voice soft as satinKind hearted and gentle, With a mind sharp enough To tear you to shreds.

Barbara Ann, Awash with compassionBarbara Ann, Help me to learn.

BY: LOGAN STALLINGS

GLORY LOST

Are you casual in your rationale?

Have you thoughts of glory Or thoughts of mediocrity?

What would your ancestors think?

The golden bottles Empty, so What of the perfume?

Was it used up?

Has it dried up, Or was it wasted?

What would your ancestors think Of you, Now their perfume is gone?

Are you casual in your rationale Of mediocrity?

BY: LOGAN STALLINGS

SOLDIER BOY He was too young to be there

Where he was.

The flowers grew so tall At home.

Sweet and pure:

They were a dream.

But above, dark and dreary,

He missed the blue.

And the blue of the water

In the backyard pool.

School, he left behind.

His parents too.

TV made the war surreal, So, hum a song of peaceful protest.

Remember backyard BBQs And baseball, Happy thoughts.

What he would give to Fly away.

O, how the mud on your boots

Does drag you down.

But march on, soldier boy.

BY: LOGAN STALLINGS

THE UNIVERSE Child, The moon is in your eyes, And the stars are in your blood, And the constellations crop up On your arms And on your legs.

And the Milky Way is swirling Like a spiral in your head.

A galaxy is in your smile, See, you have no fearNo dread.

You’re the light, And you’re the dark Your step so lithe and fluid, Like a comet overhead.

There’s a gravity within your voice; An orbit to your words.

You’re a subtle pullYou’re a black holeThe sun, The moon, The stars.

It’s youYou are the universe.

You’re the future and the past.

You’re countless, and you’re endlessYou can’t comprehend how vast You areChild.

BY: LOGAN STALLINGS

ENSHRINE

BY: AMY TONDRE

i.

I saw her one time, In a fevered dream The lady that lives in the deep reaches of the black.

Beyond light: human touch.

Enshrined in dark elaborate cloaks of velvet, She looked heavy, weighted, Pressurized by the black that surrounded and shaped her.

She reached out to me, Soundless screaming mouth. ii.

Doused in blue, I sat there waiting For my mind to return.

It wandered off, Drowning me in nostalgia.

And the fear Of uncertain future Stuffed my chest full of teddy bear fluff. iii.

Fenced perimeter Horse heads guard.

Concrete path Lined flora, fauna Naturalistic home Safe, melancholic.

Great bougainvillea Shaded corner, thorns Colored light Cool, blue.

Memory overload Horse heads guard. iv.

Crimson hemoglobin.

Moonlit gore scene .

And there before me, A white void – Turned it away, For its better to drown In uncharted emotions than leave.

V. And in the electrified night She stood underneath the manufactured glow Smoking A terrifying visage of female power.

UNDERNEATH

BY: SOPHIA VELASQUEZ

She dabbled across the water with salt stuck to her hair.

The waves were healthy, lapping against her skin like a dog’s tongue. One deep breath plunged her underwater.

A thick silence.

Then back up into existence; she secured the ankle strap linking her to the surfboard and mounted with poise. There were no limits to what could happen next.

The waves bit the board as she rose victoriously, pruned toes suctioned to gloss finish.

The sharpness of the Autumn air made her feel infinite.

She remembered the mermaids she used to dream about beneath the board sweetly lulling her forward keeping tired muscles secure on her mobile stage.

She stared at the shore until the board took her home. There she was the salt the breeze and everything underneath.

UNDERNEATH

BY: SOPHIA VELASQUEZ

I can taste the color of your eyes with a glance: syrupy, sweet staring softly at my liquid soul.

Nothing compares to your big, brown captivators: bittersweet and dark, rich with the chocolatier’s song of melting brown eyes.

Brown can hypnotize better than blue ever could, caramelized in the depths of desire.

Yes, mine are a crystal sky A love note to every brown bird that flies and meets the gaze of pale, quiet eyes.

Your slow, sleepy blinks in the morning are deeper than any blue could ever be.

My brown eyed lovebird, there is nothing sweeter than the song those long lashes sing.